’ There was a silence. Sir Rowland witnessed these proceedings like one stupified. Why in heaven’s name didn’t I think of that before?’ ‘What are you talking of?’ ‘Never mind that now. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. At least the sun would not be as bright, which was a welcome reprieve from the mercilessly bright early summer days which had invigorated every man, woman, and child in the suburbs but were wearing Lucy down into acute fatigue, along with her hunger. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. . But at this point he was still subservient, still outwardly humble, in spite of the blackhearted villainy that was even then burgeoning in his breast. Wood became sensible that he was not alone. Here was a little corner of the past—a tragic corner. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. Perhaps Ferringhall has pensioned her off.
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